His feet stopped, and he looked at his board. He licked his lips. Then he shook his head. “What do you mean? Of course it matters.”
“But you’re here, aren’t you?” I said. “We don’t talk for a day, and she’s wearing your favorite sweatshirt? You’ll choose Emma over me, and maybe Emma over everyone. And maybe that’s how it should be.”
“My life will be what I want it to be, not what Emma or anyone else wants it to be.” He kicked his board, and it flipped in a perfect circle. “I’m sick of everyone thinking they know best—I should work for my dad, I should get a soccer scholarship, I should take Emma to the dance. I get to decide, Sabine. No one else.”
“Oh yeah? Then how come you chickened out on quitting soccer?” I don’t know why I said it, except that my internal bleed was getting worse by the second, and I wanted him to fix it or to go.
“That’s not even . . .” He shook his head. The he pushed his shoulders back. “Go ahead, Sabine. Tell me I can’t choose you. Tell me I don’t have choices. Be just like everybody else. It will make this a whole lot easier.” Then he stepped onto his board, pulled his hood up, and took off, dragging my heart behind him. I felt for my hope bird. But there was nothing. No sound, no flap.
It wasn’t until I was walking back to the house that I remembered what he’d said about Emily and me. And never love anyone.
Love. Never love anyone.
He’d said love.
28
SWAMPY SWEET SECRETS
The door to the big yellow Victorian was closed. I stood there looking at it, shifting on my feet. What I wanted to do was: a) run back home and get into bed for the next three years or b) run after Kai and throw myself on the mercy of his skateboard. But instead I had to stand there looking awkward and wonder if someone would open the door or if I had to ring the bell. And if I did, whether I could apologize to Emma. She must hate me for kissing Kai and tattling on her to her grandmother. And I still kind of hated her for deleting the only evidence that Kai and I were ever together.
Just thinking about that day in the city and that selfie made me want to sink to the aged brick steps and cry, so when Emma pulled the door open and stared at me as if she was telepathically thinking: You brought this on yourself, dummy, I didn’t say a word. I just stared back. “Why should I let you in?”
I could hear Blythe somewhere inside, chanting poetry I’d forced her to memorize. I didn’t know what to say to Emma, but I made myself meet her eyes. Kai’s sweatshirt had been hiding a blouse—nothing I’d seen her wear before. It was pale pink, like she might have borrowed it from someone at school. She was wearing plain dark jeans. And her feet were bare.
“Where are your boots?” I asked.
“No shoes in the sanctuary,” she said, and I looked down at my own boots—the tall black ones, for extra power.
“She really is evil.”
“At least we agree on that.” She smiled, but it was forced. Emma’s hair was different—tied back instead of swishing into her eyes like it usually did. I wondered what was with the make-under. “It’s cold. Just come in.” She threw the door open and gestured to a shoe rack. When you plan to run out of a place, you want your shoes on your feet, not on a brass-knobbed shoe rack. But in the interest of peace, I pulled off my boots and padded behind her into the dark, overfurnitured living room.
I could see why Mrs. McMichaels had our house in mind for a museum; the museum she owned was full. It was a hodgepodge of different styles and eras, and every inch of space was covered with something—even the furniture had furniture on it. Deep red velvet pincushion-button chairs supported carved black plant stands and tufted ottomans. The dark wallpaper had gold painted through it, but you could barely tell for the landscapes and portraits covering the walls. And everywhere: tchotchkes. Little wooden carvings and porcelain figurines and jade elephants. Even the old guy in the wheelchair in front of the unlit fireplace looked like he belonged in a museum.
“This is my great-grandfather. Noni.” He made a noise that might have been hello, and I lifted a hand. Emma adjusted the blanket that covered his knees, and he opened his eyes for a moment. He had those same light blue Emma eyes—his milky with age. She stood, and he closed his eyes once more. All I could think was we would never, not ever, find anything in this hellhole of stuff.
But Blythe was already somewhere inside, snooping per our plan. My job: apologize. Her job: explore.
“Emma? Can we talk?” I asked, trying to look as contrite as I felt.
She nodded slowly. “Blythe is in my room, and Grandmamma’s at a constituent thing. Let’s go to the kitchen.” I followed her through a narrow, book-cluttered hallway.
“So, you really have a great-grandfather?” My grandparents were all gone. I’d never known most of them—only my mom’s mother, who’d taught me to sew, was someone I’d had a chance to know and love.
“Grandmamma’s dad. My mom grew up with him after her dad left. Noni’s ancient. But Grandmamma still drags him to church on Sundays. Her freakish strength comes in handy.” I wanted to ask about that lightly mentioned tragedy of another lost dad. But I was afraid if I started talking dads, I would never say what I’d come to say. Then we could never do what we’d come to do. So I kept quiet.
Emma led me to a kitchen that was also full of stuff. But it was light and bright yellow, and there were about a hundred shiny copper pans hanging from different racks around the room—not cramped but cozy. Emma gestured to two ornate, metal-backed stools beside the cookbook-covered kitchen island. Then she opened a cabinet, yanked down a big plastic tub of Red Vines, and dropped it in front of me. “The favorite,” she said.
I took four. It was only after I was done with the first twist that I could look her in the eyes under that bright kitchen light. “Could you please take that stupid clip out of your hair?” I said. “It’s freaking me out.”
Emma’s hand shot to the pink-and-white polka-dot bow decorating the back of her head. She snapped it out, her cheeks coloring. “I forgot I had that in,” she said. “Grandmamma bought some things for me.”
“I figured.” I stared at her silky blouse. “Are you okay?” Her cheeks darkened. I’d never seen her look so self-conscious and so little like the Emma who I knew.
“You were right.” She shrugged. “In a way. I mean, I have my own room. I have clothes. I have Red Vines.” She tapped the top of the plastic tub.
“But?” I pressed my lips together not to chew them. She took a deep breath, and the air caught in her throat. I was afraid she’d cry, but she just shrugged again, her bright eyes flashing.
“It sucks—of course it sucks.” She sighed. “My only sewing machine is at your house, and Grandmamma wants me home right after school every day. So I can’t work on my designs. And my dad gets out tomorrow, but I can’t even be there to meet him because the courts say I need to wait until his mental stability is assessed before I can have a supervised visit. That’s if the restraining order is lifted, which it may not be. And if she doesn’t press the child-endangerment charges, which she might. All because Grandmamma blames him for my mom’s death.”
“Wait. What?” I’d been waiting for her to place all this blame on me, where she had before.
Emma shook her head, and her hair took its usual place across her forehead. “My mom was driving to pick my dad up from a bar. It was raining, and the truck just didn’t see and . . .” Emma’s shoulders slumped. “He’s always had a bit of a drinking problem. Before she died, he didn’t have a problem problem. He just liked to have a drink with coworkers on Fridays. And he never drove drunk—they had a deal. He would always call a car or my mom to pick him up. More than once, she shoved me in the Toyota in my pajamas so we could go get him. I used to cry because it was cold, and I didn’t want to get out of my warm bed. But she always said that it was safety first.”
A terrible thought occurred to me. I tried, but
I couldn’t keep it inside. “Were you there? That night? When it was raining?”
Emma looked up from beneath her bangs. “Yeah.” I imagined a young Emma, sleepy in pajamas in her padded car seat. I started to lift my thumb to my mouth, but stopped, thinking of Charlie’s memories of my dad. I wasn’t the only one holding his memories, holding the things my dad loved inside me. I could share that burden. Then I thought, but didn’t say: Sweet is the swamp with its secrets. Swampy, swampy secrets. I pushed my hand down again, letting the poem go. I swallowed, knowing the poetry would stay inside me until I wanted to let it out.
Emma stood abruptly and opened an overstuffed cabinet for two water glasses. She set my drink down. Then she pulled up the sleeve of her silk shirt to the shoulder. A thick, ropy scar speckled with red bumps disfigured her bicep and elbow. It looked like hamburger meat someone had been taking bites of. I reached out, then pulled back. It looked like it hurt.
“Emma,” I said, and my voice sounded faraway. “Oh, Emma.” Her one-armed creations were all to cover this—to cover her injury. She and my mom had the same style: only show the perfect parts.
Emma’s voice was soft. “When the truck hit us, it hit my mom mostly. But the window and part of the door sliced into my arm. There are still tiny pieces of safety glass stuck in my arm. They were trying to save it, you know. But some of it is obviously missing. I’m supposed to be grateful.” She barked a short laugh.
I winced at the sound. “You don’t have to be happy about losing something,” I said and reached out and squeezed her hand. “Or losing someone.” It was hard to feel grateful for the remnants of a shattered life. I knew that. I released her hand, and she took a deep gulp of her water then sat down across from me. She slid the silk back down over her left arm.
We looked at each other in silence then both dipped into the Red Vines bin.
I tried to think brave. “Emma, I want you to know why I called your grandmother. I know I was wrong. But I had no idea how bad—”
“I know what you’re going to say. You don’t have to,” she said. “Kai. It was because of Kai. What else is there to say?” I sank into the cowl neck of my sweater. She’d stolen my sorry steam. But she deserved a real apology. And maybe I had to give her one.
“I still want to get this out.” I took a deep breath. She looked like she was about to roll her eyes, but I told myself to keep going. “When you told me you had feelings for him, I told myself to forget about him. I really did. I’ve only ever had crushes, so it wasn’t like I wasn’t used to my heart being trash-compacted. But then he asked me to the rose garden, and even though it didn’t end up a real date, it was the first time I’d ever seen what it could be to care about someone in this . . . romantic way. He loves words and really listening to music. And he loves my poeting. And I forgot about your feelings.” Emma looked up, her eyes hard, chewing two Red Vines at once.
“And . . .” I said quickly. “That was wrong, and I’m so incredibly sorry.” I could feel my cheeks heating, but I forced myself to go on. “I called your grandmother because I was jealous. I could tell there was something between you that was serious, and I was afraid he’d turn around and see how awesome you are and realize he wanted you. And I shouldn’t have tried to stop it. And I’m going to try to be happy for you both.” Maybe in my next life, I thought. In this one, I was going to back off but be miserable. When I looked up, she was staring at the Red Vine in her hand. I wanted her to deny it, to tell me that she and Kai hadn’t ended Halloween night together.
She ripped a Red Vine in half and pushed the plastic tub toward me, but I shook my head. I was feeling pretty sick from all that apologizing. “Thanks,” she said. “I owe you an apology, too. For the photo of you and Kai. And that day in the costume room. I knew you’d come back for your phone. I knew it, and I still . . .” She took a bite and chewed for a moment. “I felt like he’d stopped seeing me. So I made myself hard to ignore. But it’s not that he doesn’t see me. He just doesn’t see me that way.” She pulled into herself and her hair drew a curtain across her face, and I had to stop myself from asking if that was really true. “Without him, I’ll probably never leave Thornewood.”
I wrapped my fingers around the edge of the kitchen island, pinching hard. I told myself to focus on Emma, not on Kai—not on what she’d said and how it made my heart thunder in my chest. “You don’t need a guy to get you out of Thornewood. You can do that yourself.”
“I’ll never get away from Grandmamma,” she said. I didn’t know how true that might be, but I knew in that moment, we had a common enemy.
“Emma? What if we could help you? Me and Blythe?” She lifted her head, eyeing me warily. “Okay, so Blythe and I are looking for something—here, in this house. And if we find it, it might give you . . . leverage. Over your grandmother.”
Her light blue eyes were locked on me. “What kind of something?”
I told her everything. About talking to Mr. Cade about the neighborhood vote. About how much we owed on the house—and how it wasn’t really ours anymore. She listened to everything without comment, even my suspicions about her grandmother, and didn’t call me crazy. Blythe walked in as I was talking, took three Red Vines, and twisted them into a jumbo-Vine.
“We only have forty-eight hours,” I said. “We have to find evidence soon, if it even exists.” Blythe swallowed with difficulty and lifted her hand, as if she was asking for permission to speak.
“Does your grandmother keep filing cabinets?” Blythe asked.
The confident Emma-ness came back into her eyes. “I know where to look.”
29
SAFE IN THEIR ALABASTER CABINETS
We were heading out of the kitchen when the front door opened and Emma’s Noni croaked his hello. “Grandmamma’s back,” Emma whispered. She shoved me and Blythe down the narrow hallway. “First door on the left.”
“Emma?” Mrs. McMichaels called from the front of the house. “A little help, please. Emma? I have bags.” We didn’t wait to hear Emma’s reply. We hurried down the hall and closed the door behind us.
Blythe clicked on a lamp, and a cavernous room stacked with books and literary oddities rose around us. As much as I wanted to pause on the books—they were fancy ones, like first editions and whole collections—I forced my eyes to a low row of stark cabinets glowing like white tombstones beneath the far windows. They had to be her files.
Blythe’s hands were on the first drawer in a flash. She tugged and twisted the handle, but it didn’t budge. I tried the one beside it, but it was also locked. I felt the poetry burble in my mind. “Look at them. It’s like Emily said. ‘Safe in their alabaster chambers. Untouched by morning. Untouched by noon.’”
Blythe gave me a sidelong look and glanced at my hands. I wasn’t poeting. I was just . . . poeming. “Unfortunately,” she said, “they’re also untouched by us.”
“Because they’re like graves, see?” I gestured to the cabinet, but Blythe wasn’t paying attention. She pulled out the little Swiss Army knife that decorated her key chain and began picking at the center lock. I looked over the stark white cabinet, thinking it looked like something our mom would buy. It didn’t match the antiquated décor at all.
Blythe’s hand slipped, and her knife nicked her knuckle, taking out a chunk of skin. She hissed an expletive and grabbed her hand as blood welled up. Blythe was not good with pain. Or with the sight of blood. I grabbed a tissue from a side table and wrapped it around her finger. She hissed again, and I held up a finger to my lips. In the hallway, footsteps passed. We stood behind the door, me holding Blythe and both of us holding our breath. But whoever it was went by without stopping.
When I let go of her hand, Blythe bit down on her lip, her eyes tearing up. I steered her to a chair and forced her to sit. I took the pocketknife from her, but I had no idea how to pick a lock, so I put it in my pocket. Then I stood back and stared at the cabinet. Something was
really off about it. Why didn’t she have big oak filing cabinets that had been in her family for generations? This looked like a recent purchase from Design Within Reach.
I walked around the side and moved a stack of books out of the way. The side was split from the front in a line. The files weren’t drawers at all—it was a false front. I was reminded of our mom’s cloth-covered bedside tables. When you pulled a hidden rope, the cloth revealed a bookshelf. That way you could store all your bedside items without the room looking cluttered.
So where was the rope? I skimmed my fingers along the top of the cabinet, then along the sides. Nothing. I got down on the floor and ran my hand along the base of the cabinet, finding nothing but dust bunnies. But when I came to the center, my finger caught on a slim piece of metal. I got down on my hands and knees and shoved my face practically to the floor to see the lock. But it wasn’t a lock. It was a letter R, like from a sign, welded to the base of the filing cabinet.
I flashed on the signage in city hall: reco ds. Mrs. McMichaels hijacked the R. This was it—her private city hall. I moved my fingers slowly over the R again, and it shifted but didn’t move. Maybe it had to be pushed or twisted or turned or something. I tried all those things, but none of them worked.
I walked over to Blythe. Her breathing was taking up a lot of the air in the room. “Hey. Can you look at me?” She was holding her hand where a not-insignificant amount of blood was saturating the tissue.
“It hurts,” she said.
“I know.” I squeezed her other hand. “You can have a cupcake bandage when we get home. But right now, I need you to think. There’s a latch thing under the cabinet. But it won’t twist or turn or pull.”
“Mrs. McMichaels is too old to crouch down. It’s a bottom latch, it would go up. Maybe she kicks it up, or uses something to lift it?”
Wider than the Sky Page 21
